


Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, True Love, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 01:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18955183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Sam looks at Dean and thinks of love and perfection





	Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

 

 

 

It was like looking at the sun. It was too bright. Too hot. Too beautiful. Almost divine.

You could only look at it fleetingly as the beauty threatened to burn your retina permanently. Scarring you from ever finding beauty in anything else again.

It was like Icarus all over again, trying to fly using fake wings and finding that you had come undone for the blasphemy of having tried to touch the sun, as everything melted off and you fell….falling…tumbling, spinning….into freefall into eternal darkness…where the sun would never touch you again. Where you would never be warm again.

Where you would be banished for having had the audacity to try and reach out and touch the Sun.

Sam shivered as he sat in the Impala, shotgun. Always shotgun.

His eyes slid to watch Dean, humming and hitting the steering wheel in tune with some new song he had taken a fancy to. He smiled despite himself. These were the moments he wished to capture somehow. In something.

Maybe a polaroid. Maybe a painting. Something more tangible than his own memories.

These moments were precious. In a life where very little was permanent and very little could be treasured, this here, was worth being born for.

This was worth going to Hell and back for. This was worth fighting Death for.

He drifted off into thinking of what the renaissance painters would have done with Dean. If they would have started an entire new school of style to capture that incandescent face. That luminous forehead, those ocean green eyes.

Would they have invented a new system of painting to be able to immortalize those eyelashes as they swept his cheeks when he slept? Would they have created new pigments to capture the exact pink of his lips? The way the tint changed lightly from the delicious centre to the darker corners which tugged up in a smile.

Would Shakespeare have composed a sonnet for him?

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

Would Michelangelo have carved him in the finest Carrara marble? All rippling muscles, fluid grace and mesmerizing beauty?

Would someone carve his face into a mountain range so that it could be worshipped for miles around?

Would the great opera writers have found a suitable harmony to explain to the world what happened when the lower lip was trapped under his teeth, and when those eyes looked up through the lashes?

Would a 32 piece orchestra be enough to create the symphony that could describe the ripples of joy than spread through the universe when those lips parted and laughed? Or would they have to invent a new instrument that could convey the sound of that sigh, soft and trembling that emerged from those lips on certain nights?

Would there be any way to capture all that perfection, all that beauty, all that grace into any one form? Would they in fact create a way to suspend time and space so that they could all just sit there and gaze upon this thing of beauty, simply unable to capture it in any human way possible?

And he was the lucky one who got to hold it in his hands every single day. The agony and the ecstasy of the love he felt for this man every waking moment of his life. The sheer liquid flow of one-ness that existed between them.

The fact that he could touch this man, glide his fingertips along his golden skin, press his lips to those enchanting pink bows, run his palms down his back, squeezing him closer, entering him, being taken by him……it was like flying, like falling, like being part of the entire universe at once.

Like jumping into an impressionist painting while listening to the music of the spheres. It was like being a part of everything while also losing oneself completely.

Like a cloud on a hot day. Like sugar in a cup of black coffee. Like a breeze in a forest.

Being with Dean was like finding refuge after a storm. Like finding sanctuary in a war-torn world. Like finding an answer to the question you weren’t even asking.

It was like….being in love. Every day. Every night. And all the moments in between.

Sam sighed at his fancies and Dean looked over.

“Penny for your thoughts Sammy?”

Sam just looked at him and smiled, the joy and love radiating from his face in a language that didn’t need any words.

Dean looked away, almost blushing. “Dude. Not when I am driving! Should be at the motel in an hour.”

“Ugh.” Sam grunted and punched his arm. “It’s not always about sex! Jerk.”

“Then what’s it about? Bitch!” Dean volleyed back, as reflexive as breathing.

Sam was silent.

Dean smiled and said. “I love you too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (Sonnet 18)  
> William Shakespeare - 1564-1616
> 
> Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?  
> Thou art more lovely and more temperate.  
> Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
> And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
> 
> Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
> And often is his gold complexion dimmed;  
> And every fair from fair sometime declines,  
> By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
> 
> But thy eternal summer shall not fade,  
> Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,  
> Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,  
> When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
> 
> So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,  
> So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


End file.
